


The Taxonomy of a Kiss

by webcricket



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Wings, First Kiss, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Protective Castiel, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-17 23:07:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14840945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket





	The Taxonomy of a Kiss

Palms outstretched to form a futile fleshy excuse for a shield, a blur of branches whip through your fingers; sticks and nettles thrash and sting your face as you tumble down a mud-slick embankment, plunging headlong through a thicket of wiry, but unforgivingly _sturdy_ , saplings. By dumb luck you manage to snag at an overhanging limb to avert a crash landing courtesy of the tug of gravity. However, along with a panted intake of breath, you may or may not have just swallowed an unidentified insect; you can’t be sure, and this – more than the pack of werewolves you’re trying to outpace – gives you a serious case of the heebie jeebies. Stopping to swat at your tongue and spit in a sputtering fit disgust, you lose sight of the trench coat clad set of strong seraphim shoulders cutting a ridiculously sure-footed path through the woods ahead of you. 

This development is worse than the offending bug you’re now one-hundred percent certain was a spider even though you didn’t actually see it; you can tell by the sickening revolt of your stomach the critter had eight hairy legs and a matching number of beady black peepers. You duck from an entirely imaginary web suspended overhead. Honestly, with that many eyes, the arachnid should have seen you coming and gotten out of the way; but this is neither here nor there since you’ve lost the power-packed portion of your human-angel decoy duo.

“Cas!” you whisper-shout and flail in frustration at a bunch of brush blocking your view ahead. Pirouetting in tight circles on the blanket of pine needles littering the forest floor beneath your feet as you peer around, you realize you actually have no idea which direction you came from or in which you were going. “Cas!” You try again with a bit breathier gusto; the subdued – so as not to attract unwanted attention of the carnivorous variety – endeavor emerges mostly as a misty cloud of white breath dissolving in the cool air. _Castiel!_ you scream in silent prayer with all the pious concentration you can muster.

The deep hush of the forest – dense, damp, and reeking of decaying leaves – cushions your efforts at contact of the celestial kind. A foggy shroud of dread creeps in, it seems, from every angle.

You kick a bulbous grey mushroom out of redirected frustration and glare at the bruised brown smear of fungal funk clinging to your shoe. So much for being a distant distraction while Sam and Dean play hero and save the day; you may as well grow a few tail feathers and call yourself a sitting duck. You take several intrepid steps toward a moss-covered log; losing steam on account of navigational uncertainty, you think the angel really should’ve realized by now you’re not following him any longer. You ponder sitting down to wait for him to return. _Quack, quack,_ your mind taunts when you stoop to sit. Scowling in self-derision, you jerk upright and remain standing.

Out of nowhere, a ring of pressure fastens around your upper arm and yanks you off balance; plucking you sideways, the strapping – and somehow not at all winded – figure of the seraph pins you bodily against a roughly barked trunk; his hand simultaneously smooshes your mouth, effectively stifling the shocked cry wending up your throat to leap off your tongue.

Senses swamped and threatening a swoon in a wave of relief at the seraph’s sudden appearance to whisk you off your feet, your fists grope at the lapels of his coat in an instinct to ground yourself.

“What happened?” Castiel’s concerned luminous blues hover less than an inch from yours – the growled question more vibrated than verbalized.

“I ate a spider,” you mumble into the calloused pillow of his palm.

Relaxing his hold, his head assumes a bewildered slant. He slides his freed fingers to wander at your waist; the tips tickle along the soft swell of your sides over a barrier of flannel fabric you wish didn’t exist right now. Although it’s difficult to focus on anything but the titillating warmth kindled in the wake of his indirectly affecting caresses, you perceive the unspoken – and utterly adorable – confounded query of _why did you eat a spider_ in the tapering of his gaze.

“It was an accident,” you explain, shrugging in the not at all unpleasant limited capacity the caging of his embrace and your back braced against the tree allow.

Glancing abruptly to his right, stubble-shadowed jaw squaring and tensing in alarm, he glides you both a half turn around the broad based trunk until the whole column of his solid frame cloaks yours in closeness; he holds a shushing finger to the pliant dewy petals of your lips.

Acutely aware of the radiant heat of his vessel stoking the fires of your undeclared attraction to him, unable to mask a mounting flush of amorous arousal at this proximity, wits all but surrendering to the seductive scent of petrichor perpetually clinging to him, you can’t help the involuntary knee-weakening shudder coursing through you from core to limb. You can maybe, _maybe_ , blame the hardening buds of your breasts and prickle of goosebumps on the ambient temperature. You manage, to your credit, not to wantonly moan and totally lose composure.

He casts you a curious arched brow look not at all expressive of confusion on his part as to what’s going on, but rather, showing sincere _surprise_ ; and, perhaps even – in the hopeful impression of more than friendly affection you see fragment his stolid stained-glass blue stare into fractured shards of fondly glinting golden light – a keen interest in your carnal reaction.

Your cheeks tint a deeper shade of pink wondering at the passionate possibilities. Only then do you hear the crunching of fallen leaves, wild rustle of bush, and the hungry snarls of your pursuers; your adrenaline infused focus tears from the angel to dart in their direction.

Perception limited to a single non-celestial dimensional plane, you miss the massive sprawl of war-ravaged, but nonetheless beautiful, dusky black feathered wings unfurling and wrapping to protectively veil your entwined bodies in an illusion of filtered forest sunlit rays on a muted camouflage canvas of taupe trench coat.

The noise grows louder, then fades; they pass without spotting you.

Lids heavy, you shut your eyes and exhale a grateful sigh. When you blink them open again, Castiel’s regard is darker – the bright blue event horizon of his irises consumed by expanding black hole infinities of liberated lust.

He glances from your equally enamored gaze to the quieting finger he still has pressed to your quivering lips; lifting the digit, he molds it and its cohorts lightly around the curvature of your neck. He traces a tantalizing trail along the line of your jaw with the pad of his thumb.

Acquiescing with an arch into his delicately claiming touch, your lips part to speak his name; before you can formulate a single desire-laden syllable, he bends to brush his mouth to the corner of yours – the fleeting taste of him honey and sunshine after a summer rain.

Disentangling your fingers from the cloth of his coat, you delve them beneath the shell of his suit to stroke up and down his torso; drawing on his melting bulk to mash you against the tree, you chase after the too tentative departing kiss to lay impassioned siege to his lips.

He gives in, a guttural groan of sensual submission swirling around his eagerly assenting tongue. Sparks of grace leave ecstasy-charged echoes in the wake of fervent fingertips winding around your ribcage to explore the dip of your spine and knead the denim hugging the ample curves of your hips.

Blissfully breathless, parting with a gasp, forehead to forehead, a subtle amused smile – so rare as to be utterly spellbinding in its charm – illuminates his features.

Reflecting his glow of glee in your delighted grin, you ask, “What are you smiling about, angel?”

“ _Anopheles punctipennis_.”

“Say what now?” Your brow knots in puzzlement at the scientifically studious swing of mood.

“ _Anopheles punctipennis_ ,” he repeats, small smile shifting to seriousness, as if mere reiteration might foster understanding. Inclining ever-so-slightly backward in separation, he reaches up to tuck a wisp of hair behind your ear. Gathering your chin to perch between his palms, his grace flows featherlike to sooth the superficial scratches marring your skin. Reading the bafflement etched in your aspect, he elucidates, “Better known as the common biting mosquito. You ingested a mosquito, not a spider.”

It’s not exactly the sort of romantic revelation you envisioned following a first kiss. If it were anyone but Castiel, you’d be disappointed by the detour; but it’s _Cas_ , and you’ve learned to appreciate his angelically nuanced version of normal. “Are you _sure_?” You fail to completely iron out the wrinkle of an impish grin adorning your mouth.

“I’m fairly certain.” Solemnity sustained in affront to your modicum of mockery, his hands drop to encircle your waist. He bows his head to bridge the gap between you once more. “Although, there are 14 species in that genus in North American alone, several of them nearly indistinguishable from one another.”

“Hmm, 14? And some with significantly similar qualities?” you murmur in good-humored astonishment. “Seems like mistakes could be made with those odds.”

He nuzzles your cheek tenderly, the breeze of his breath sultry and sweet across your kiss-creased lips as he whispers over them. “Then perhaps we should kiss again, just to clear up any doubts on the matter.”

Your whole-hearted agreement upon that motion manifests with the clarity-inducing crush of a second kiss.


End file.
